


The Guardian of The Boy King

by hi_im_dazey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little Seltzer down your Pangst, A little angst, Brother Bond, Gen, Some Dean-flavoured self doubt, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22281517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_im_dazey/pseuds/hi_im_dazey
Summary: Just had a random moment of wondering if Dean ever felt manipulated by demons pre-Moriah Chuck revelation, so the "Present day" parts should be read as post bunker, pre-Michael, during a lull in the action and before there were 8000 other people constantly traipsing through the bunker. No specific episode coda though.Do not upload to another site. If you are reading this anywhere but AO3, you are supporting content thieves. You can read this for free from ANY device, without an app, paywall, ads, or tracking, on AO3 with a free private account. www.archiveofourown.org
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 10





	The Guardian of The Boy King

**Author's Note:**

> The first section is sort of Omni, Demon in general, PoV, then shifts to Dean's PoV in the last bit.  
DO NOT repost to another site. You can find me on tumblr @hi-im-dazey

The demons learned very quickly that they only had to expend minimal effort to protect The Boy King.

When the Guardian was too young and untrained, Azazel himself had to step in a few times, since salt and holy water had no effect on him; Winchester knew enough to realize demons were involved somehow.

So, the infant crown prince was caught by unseen clouds of black smoke and returned to his sleeping brother’s side when he’d managed to roll himself off the bed.

A safety was switched on and the bullets dissolved out of the chambers when The Guardian was too young to understand that the guns Winchester kept, too close to small children, were not toys.

Colicky coughs were soothed away before the young prince could choke, when the Guardian was too young to know steam would help or read the labels on the bottles of medicinal syrup in the first aid kit.

Later, after Winchester began to train The Guardian, their work became a matter of only dealing out dribbles of fear.

One only had to possess a disheveled vessel and look at the three-year-old King with a sickening desire, and his sturdy protector redoubled his efforts to guard the boy. The Guardian, a pretty child himself, had been on the receiving end of such lustful glances. He did not understand them entirely, but he knew they were wrong and evil, and NO ONE was going to look at his baby brother like that, not while he was alive.

Bumps and bruises and scrapes were unavoidable. The Boy King was a little klutzy after growth spurts. He seemed to forget how to work his limbs whenever he got a little taller. But the demon who was on duty when he broke his arm jumping off a roof is still being tortured even now, eons of hell time later. The demon tried to defend himself -- the building was surrounded by salt, he pointed out, and, unlike Azazel, he could not cross. Once their King was falling, there was no way to save him without the Guardian noticing. Also, hadn’t he sped the Guardian’s journey to the hospital? Kept the little sovereign well balanced on the handlebars?

His defense elicited only a cold regard from Azazel; the demon’s trip to the pit was instant and painful. The first hundred years were spent having the pain of breaking bones slamming through his nerve endings constantly.

When the Boy King was in school, the occasional bully was borrowed, or creepy-looking teacher or staff member. Threats from bullies and inappropriate comments or touches were enough to make The Boy King cleave more fiercely to his Guardian. His brother quickly became the source of all his feelings of safety.

The Guardian became interested in trysts away from his charge. Puberty could not be avoided. Possessing the vessels that were on the receiving end of his inexperienced pawing, and purring a stream of fear into his brain, was all that was needed.

“Are you sure your little brother is safe?” with just the right hint of concern mixed with menace, cooled The Guardian’s ardor off very effectively. Dates cut short, apologies mumbled, exits made. One well-intoned question sent the little soldier right back to his post.

The Guardian came up with the solution of bringing his partners back to wherever they were staying. The demons found this entertaining to watch since The Guardian never seemed to notice that The Boy King was never asleep when this happened and always upset by it. The noise and smell of someone else in his safest space, with his safest person, broke him over and over again. He viewed The Guardian as his, and sharing him with someone else was not in his toolbox at that age. The demons gleefully imagined what punishment their King would mete out, once he was all-powerful, for these moments of betrayal.

Once the Boy King was older and feeling those urges himself, the slightest hint to the Guardian that someone was close to touching their prince was all that was needed. A wiggled eyebrow and a sly,

“Sure, right, they’re ‘studying’…” along with an elbow nudged into a rib ignited that fierce protective streak.

The Guardian never realized he was being led to the clandestine assignations by demonic influence. He saw only red, his blood burning with rage, until he was peeling the interloper off his brother and had the King safely back in that car of theirs. The Boy King showed his displeasure at this, but The Guardian only cared that he was safe. He could not always keep his younger brother happy. That wasn’t his job, anyway. He could and would keep him safe. Nothing tore at him more than the fear of failing in this duty.

Often these poor victims were only innocent teenagers, but more than a few were possessed just long enough to scare the prince into being grateful for the rescue. Keeping the Guardian on his toes and tuned to the needs of his charge was important, but making sure The King stayed close willingly was of equal need.

You do not want to know what happened to the demon that allowed The Boy King to escape to Flagstaff.

Even 20 years later, The Guardian could not have told you how he found The King. He had felt like he was living a nightmare, nothing felt real. He only knew, lived, and breathed finding his lost boy. Winchester had been almost as enraged as Azazel over this transgression. After two weeks of pretending everything was fine the demon had finally admitted that their crown prince had fled and was in Flagstaff. The Guardian left for Arizona as soon as that knowledge was planted in his head, ignoring Winchester’s blustering and berating.

The less said about the fate of that demon, the better.

A year later almost to the day, since finding him in Flagstaff, The Guardian watched as his brother climbed up the steps of the Greyhound Bus. He was seated on a bench a few feet away from both the bus and their car. He watched as his brother found a seat and flopped his lanky frame down.

An older lady had witnessed their farewells; watched as he had pressed a sizable wad of smoke scented, beer stained money into the younger man’s hand and given him a rough but thorough hug while trying not to show his tears.

She approached him and patted him on the shoulder and said,

“Don’t worry about him, I’m heading the same way I will watch out for him.”

The Guardian did not respond verbally or relax at this, but he did give a slight smile to her. She was offering a kindness to him, but she didn’t really understand what his baby brother needed protecting from, or that it was a job that belonged to him alone. She mounted the steps and took the seat next to The King.

She felt honored to be near their King. By the end of the journey she was more than half in love with him, a passion that was only bolstering her oath of fealty. He had told her about his dreams and his hopes and some of his fears and done so with the deference a well-mannered young man should show her vessel. He’d even insisted on helping her on and off the bus at pit stops, and waited with her at the terminus until a family member had come to gather the aged body.

“Just to make sure you get home safe, ma’am.” He’d said to her.

As her vessel’s granddaughter drove her away, she watched the sweet young man climb into a local bus that ran to campus. She turned to her vessel’s granddaughter, whom she knew from rummaging through this brain, also attended Stanford, and swapped herself into the young woman’s body. Keeping close to The Boy King kept her busy for the next two years.

The Guardian and Winchester took turns hovering around as well. The Guardian would come and visit often. Spending a few days to make sure he was well cared for, feeding himself, and getting enough sleep. When the Guardian’s budget allowed, he took the Boy King bowling, or out for a night at the movies. Around these activities, he would also check the area for anything that might harm his brother and, if need be, take care of it.

Winchester would only watch from afar. Protectiveness, love, and anger at being defied kept him close enough to watch, but far enough to avoid detection.

Over the summer that bridged the second and third year, The Boy King’s roommate was taken and used as a vessel for one of Azazel’s most powerful lieutenants. Lesser demons took over many of his friends and a few of his professors. The time was coming when The King would start feeling his power. Keeping him safe, while still important, became secondary to making sure others did not become aware of the power that was soon to course through him.

Slips of power that he was not even aware of started coming out. A tormenter in one of his pre-law sections slipped on the way out of class and broke both his legs. All the Boy had thought was it would be nice not to have to deal with the snobbery of this trust fund kid for the rest of the semester.

A flirtation in a bar resulted in a thrall situation that they had to step in and break. Having humans in his thrall with minimal effort was impressive, at this stage. They saw it as proof that their loyalty to him was well placed. However, a collection of mindless human servants, filled with obedience and lust, following a twenty-year-old, spindle-legged nerd around unceasingly would have tipped their hand.

They also had to stop dogs, cats, and a lot of local wildlife from following him around. That one was a bit of a headscratcher for them. The King of Hell would, of course, command the hounds in hell, but the animals he attracted in the human realm seemed to be more of the goofy pet variety. Even feral animals rolled over for belly rubs. The local coyotes acted domesticated and would bring him sticks to throw. Possums would sit by him when he was studying under trees on campus. There was a russet-coated fox that would follow him to class for a while, until the demons scared it off.

The only animals they did not interfere with was the ravens. Ravens were sacred. You didn’t fuck with Ravens. Especially not when they brought tribute to The Boy King. There was a cigar box, in his dorm room, filled with small, shiny treasures the Ravens had brought him in return, he’d assumed, for scraps of food he left for them.

As that summer drew to a close, The Guardian turned on them. The demon that had guarded The King on his journey to California had somehow made herself known to the elder two Winchesters and had been trapped in a magicked prison box.

The demons went into overdrive to keep the Guardian at bay. The Guardian could not know, at this point, just how many demons were that close to his brother. Increased activity in places far from California, voicemails mysteriously failed to record or save, false recordings telling of disconnected numbers, letters going missing. Mistrust and anger filled the spaces in their hearts torn open by their absence in each other’s lives. Two years passed without a word between sworn protector and charge. It was not yet time to return his well-being back into The Guardian’s hands.

The demon Brady set that return into motion; he hand-picked Jessica Moore. She was tall, with a plush figure and plusher lips. Blonde like the King’s long-lost human mother. Protective in a way that reminded him of his missing brother; with sparkling green eyes, she shared the same birthday as his Guardian. She was hard for him to resist. She had a dark wit that reminded the King of his father, and an ability to hold her liquor that felt like home. She seemed to be made from everything he was lonesome for.

She even had a constellation of beauty marks to rival their Kings’, it was the first thing he noticed. It gave him the perfect conversation starter.

As soon as he smiled at her, she was dying.

When the Guardian drove The King away from Palo Alto after her funeral, Winchester was already hiding himself from them. A few ominous clues and veiled threats on the boy’s life were all they had needed to keep the father away. Winchester thought he was keeping his sons safe. He was only driving them closer to their fate.

Azazel had no intention of really taking the Guardian away. It was too good of a deal to pass up when Winchester offered himself instead, though. It sped up the process.

When it became clear that Winchester was not going to break, Azazel knew he’d need to use his backup plan. The Boy King was kept in limbo, his body mysteriously free of decay, the Guardian did not even notice as he left the room, speeding off to the nearest crossroads to broker a deal. If he’d bothered to check he’d have seen that the knife wound was posthumously knitting closed and healing.

“Give him a year, that’s all,” the crossroad demons had been admonished, “no more, no less. We can’t wait much longer.”

The King awoke remembering whispered words of obeisance and worship. Canted oaths of love, lust, and acquiescence. A vision fading from his mind of demons kneeling and offering great brimming chalices full of… what was it? The last thing he could almost remember was at his right hand, his brother in a protective stance, one hand on a sword and one on the small of the King’s back.

On waking, the smell of decay, masked by roses and something metallic, left his nostrils as if the previous breath he had taken had come from some other realm’s atmosphere.

When his brother burst through the door, they threw themselves into an embrace. The nightmare melted away as the safety of his Guardian flooded into him.

His brother, always looking out for him.

Ruby insinuated herself into their lives, ready to take over the role of protector once the Guardian went to do his duty in hell. Ruby had almost managed to separate them for good.

* * *

Years later, Dean finally let go of the bitterness he had nursed whenever he thought of Ruby. He finally realized that Sam wasn’t the only one being manipulated. That he had been used to keep Sam safe, and not because of love or family. Because some fucking demon planned to take Sam away and turn him into a monster and used Dean to make sure that would happen.

But they had beaten them.

Beaten them all.

They had won.

Dean stares at Sam. His little brother’s head bent over a book on the map table. He feels a familiar rush of protectiveness, pride, and love. Sam is closer to forty than thirty, but even still, he looks like a child to Dean. Especially when his face is smooth and free of stress.

When Sam is reading, Dean sees his studious teenager, he fights a daily battle with himself not to ruffle Sam’s hair while he works. Although he does still bring him plates of cookies and glasses of milk. No matter how much eye-rolling Sam does over the offer, he still says, ‘Thank you,’ and enjoys them.

When Sam is explaining his latest lore research session, Dean sees that excited puppy of a ten-year-old little brother. He feels a deep sense of pride in just how smart his little brother is. He always has been. He never mentions it, because Sam always turns it around on him and goes on about how smart Dean himself is, with a tone of hero worship still in his voice that always makes Dean slightly uncomfortable. He’s not sure he deserves so much adoration. He never has been.

When Sam is sleeping, Dean sees his baby. The baby that Dad had pushed into his small arms to protect from the flames all those years ago. So much of his life, given over in a searing hot, smoke-filled instant, to a single purpose –keep this precious child alive. Take care of Sammy.

When Sam smiles or laughs at one of Dean’s jokes, he still feels that big brother pride of making his little brother happy. Even annoying his little brother was a point of pride for Dean. Singing off-key and full lunged, teasing him over a flirtation, or how long it’s been since he’d flirted, or playing pranks on him. Anything to get a reaction. An eye-roll, a snort, a smack on the shoulder, or a return volley of pranks.

When Sam is injured, or sick, or dying, or dead, Dean’s world is teetering on the edge of oblivion. Without Sam… Dean slams the thoughts closed on his feelings there.

Sam is here and he’s fine.

Don’t borrow trouble.

For a moment he thinks,

_‘What if all of that is because the demons wanted to make sure I was bound to him? That I would protect him and keep him safe for their plans? What if none of these feelings are mine? What if it was all the demons and I am just used to it?’_

The thought must have brought an involuntary noise or motion from him.

Sam lifts his head and gives Dean a small smile,

“Hey, you hungry?” Dean asks.

Dean knows Sam well enough to know he is.

Sam knows Dean well enough not to argue the point.

“I could eat.” Sam’s smile widens.

An hour later they are teasing each other and eating ribs at their favorite joint in town. Dean teases Sam about his insistence on eating a salad with his slab of meat; Sam teases Dean about his refusal to do the same.

Their fingers are smeared with barbeque sauce. Cornbread crumbs and an increasing, yet always even, number of beer bottles crowd the table. They speak about their last case in a low cadence to avoid eavesdroppers. They talk about how well the fight had gone, how glad they were to save the victims. They worry about a few things that could have gone wrong and enjoy their relief over one thing that almost did go wrong.

Their smiles are easy and familiar. Dean’s eyes are sparkling with beer and relaxation. Sam’s dimples and a dip of his chin signal that Dean made a good joke about the monster’s choice of clothing.

In that moment, Dean knows.

It wasn’t the demons.


End file.
